Part 9 (2/2)

'Well, if you see him, tell him I want him at the Arts Centre by half-six at the latest, or his b.o.l.l.o.c.ks are going to be hanging from my car keys!' And with that he was gone.

Logan let out a sigh of relief. Insch was a lot more work than he used to be. Still, at least it was time to go home. He was in the middle of signing out when DI Steel found him. 'Heading off early are we?' she asked, treating him to an imperious sniff.

'My s.h.i.+ft finished twenty minutes ago, so no.'

'Well, well: at home to Mr Grumpy are we? How was Fatty Insch, he snap your bra strap and chase you round the desk?'

'He wants the Jason Fettes case.'

Steel looked surprised. 'Bondage, s.e.x shops, and seedy internet chat rooms? Doesn't sound like him. Still, what the h.e.l.l: he's welcome to it, one less thing for me to worry about. You offer him them break-ins as well?'

'Wasn't interested.'

She sighed. 'Me neither. You don't want them, do you?'

'No, not really, I-'

'Actually, that's no' a bad idea, give you an excuse to get away from Inspector Fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d now and then.'

'But-'

'Nope, my mind's made up. You can have Rickards, dirty little squit that he is. Just drop me an update report every couple of weeks and we'll be fine. Don't worry, I'm no' expecting you to actually solve them.'

Somehow that didn't make Logan feel any better.

Drizzle drifted down from the sky in lazy waves, making the streetlights glow like fireflies the length of Union Street. Logan turned his collar up and hurried home, before it could seep all the way through to his skin. The flat was ominously silent when he got in. By quarter to seven there was still no sign of Jackie, which probably meant she'd gone straight to the pub after work. It was becoming something of a habit ever since the Macintyre rape trial fell to pieces. Logan tried calling her, but her mobile went straight to voicemail. So that meant he'd have to fend for himself, or face another night in the pub. He checked the kitchen cupboards, then the fridge and decided on a trip to the nearest Chinese carryout.

He was locking the front door when the flat's phone started to ring. Cursing, he let himself back in, just in time to cut the answering machine off mid-flow. 'h.e.l.lo?'

'Who's this?' The familiar voice of Big Gary.

'Who do you think it is? You phoned me, remember?'

'Aye, but you could've been Watson's fancy piece. He sounds affa like you.'

'Very funny. What do you want Gary?'

'DI Insch: can't get hold of him, his mobile's off, so you're next in line.'

'No I'm-'

'Aye, you are. I asked Steel and she says you're working for him now.'

b.l.o.o.d.y DI b.l.o.o.d.y Steel. Logan sighed. 'What's up?'

'We just got a call in from Tayside Police they've had a rape that's a dead match for your Rob Macintyre case.'

17.

The sound of a piano being tortured greeted Logan as he pushed through the Arts Centre's main doors. According to the posters up outside in the huge, columned portico, there was supposed to be a series of Samuel Beckett plays on this week, but Waiting For G.o.dot had a big CANCELLED sticker across it. Which explained how Insch had managed to get hold of the Arts Centre calling everyone in for a special rehearsal, even though it was a Sat.u.r.day night. Normally a production wouldn't get to set foot on the stage until a day or two before the run. And from the sounds of things, Insch's Mikado was nowhere near ready for that.

Logan sneaked in through the doors to the theatre burgundy carpet, mahogany panelling, rows and rows of empty seats facing a stage that was bedecked with some of the lumpiest people Logan had ever seen, mostly wearing jeans and sweats.h.i.+rts. And down in the front row of seats was DI Insch, addressing his cast: 'Again, from ”I'll tear the mask from your disguising” and please, for the love of G.o.d, watch for the beat!'

Logan stood and watched them for a minute, trying not to laugh. DC Rennie was in the middle of the men, overacting and throwing his hands about like a demented windmill. This time the chorus were almost on time with their bellowing. Insch made them do it again. Logan really didn't want to have to suffer it a third time through, so he marched up and tapped the inspector on the shoulder.

'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Control called: Tayside Police have been on the phone...' Insch listened to what little information Logan had, before turning and telling the people on stage that they were going to go over this bit until they got it right, or it killed them. He didn't care which. Leaving them in the not-so-careful hands of the pianist he steered Logan out into the corridor.

'Get back there and find out if they got any forensic evidence. We've not destroyed Macintyre's DNA sample yet if we can get a match he's screwed. In fact, get Tayside to email up everything they've got. I'll be finished here in...' he checked his watch, then looked back at the double doors as a ragged cacophony marked another ill-fated adventure into the world of Gilbert and Sullivan. 'We'll still be here by the time you get back.'

Listening to the noise coming from the stage, Logan got the feeling he could come back the same time next year and they'd still be b.l.o.o.d.y awful.

The last page chugged into the printer's out tray. According to Tayside Police there was no sign of forensic evidence: no hairs, no flakes of skin, no s.e.m.e.n, nothing. But the MO was a perfect match for Rob Macintyre: a lone woman, walking home at night takes a short cut through a darkened street and is jumped from behind. Forced to the ground at knife-point, cut and raped by a man with an Aberdonian accent. Just like every attack they'd tried to pin on Macintyre. And like all the other Macintyre cases, there was nothing connecting the footballer to the crime.

Logan stuffed the printouts into a manila folder and headed back to the Arts Centre. It had taken nearly an hour and a half to get everything emailed up from Dundee, and by the time he got back to the theatre, Insch was in the middle of his standard motivational speech the same one he gave to incident rooms after telling them all how c.r.a.p they were and that they should be ashamed to call themselves police officers. 'Now go get cleaned up and I'll see you in the pub.' He forced a smile. 'Good work tonight, people!'

Insch watched them all troop off stage chattering excitedly, then sank down into one of the theatre seats, put his head in his hands and muttered quiet obscenities.

Logan gave him a couple of minutes. Then, 'Got those files you wanted, sir.'

The inspector looked up, wearing a grimace of artistic pain. 'You're not a big theatregoer, are you, Sergeant?'

'Not as such, sir, no.'

Insch nodded thoughtfully. 'Nights like this, I don't blame you.' He sighed. 'OK. Let's see what you've got.' They spread the printouts from Tayside Police on top of the grand piano in the orchestra pit: blood a.n.a.lysis, medical reports, before and after photos of the victim, and a blurry identikit picture of the attacker. It could have been anyone.

'Nikki Bruce, twenty-three, she was on her way home from a night out with friends. She was sick outside the nightclub, so the taxi driver refused to take her. Walked home alone along Broughty Ferry Road. That's where he attacked her.'

The inspector scowled at the photos before, Nikki had been a good-looking young woman with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. The 'after' picture was completely different: one eye swollen shut, the other bright red with burst blood vessels, her nose flattened and off to one side, her mouth crooked and puffed-up, the lip split, three or four teeth missing, her whole face covered in bandages, surgical padding and bruises. It was hard to believe this was the same person.

'And where,' he asked, 'was Macintyre when all this happened?'

'Thought he wasn't a suspect any more.'

Something disturbingly like a growl rumbled deep within Insch's throat. 'Like h.e.l.l he's not.' He pulled out his mobile and called the Procurator Fiscal, looking for a warrant to drag Macintyre in for questioning. And from the sound of things not getting very far. 'No ... no ... he's ... of course it's him! It's his MO, he's ... no, we don't ... but...' He placed one ma.s.sive hand on the pile of paperwork and crushed it into a ball. 'Yes, I understand ... no ... of course. Thank you for your time.' Insch hung up, slipped the phone carefully in his pocket, then hurled the printouts at the stage. 'f.u.c.k!' Sheets of paper flared white in the footlights' glow, then slipped back onto the grey-painted floor. A few fluttered down into the orchestra pit. Logan held his breath and waited for the inspector to start taking it out on him.

Instead, Insch screwed his face up, stuck two fingers against the throbbing side of his neck and hissed air in and out through his nose. The trembling subsided and Insch's breathing returned to normal, his face slowly losing its dark purple tinge.

'Er...' Logan knew he was probably going to regret asking this, 'are you OK, sir?'

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